


World's Finest: Star City

by WingFeathers



Series: World's Finest: The Missing Issues [7]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Green Arrow (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: (He's Trying), Alcohol, Board Games, Bruce Wayne Being an Asshole, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, But with a happy ending, Developing Friendships, Dick Grayson is Robin, Dinah Lance Being Rad, Double Dating, Drinking, F/M, Friendship, Good Parent Oliver Queen, Identity Reveal Fallout, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, It's the Arrowfam after all, Karaoke, Leftist Politics, Loss of Trust, M/M, Minor Wally West, Multi, Oliver Queen Being an Asshole, POV Clark Kent, POV Dick Grayson, Possible hints of Roy Harper/Dick Grayson if you are into that, Pre-Flashpoint (DCU), Pre-Flashpoint Roy Harper Thank You, Secret Identity, but also hints of Dick Grayson/Wally West if you are into that, or none if you prefer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 21:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16071683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingFeathers/pseuds/WingFeathers
Summary: Bruce, Clark, and Dick.  Ollie, Dinah, and Roy.Chili. Catan. Karaoke.What could go wrong?  Other than Bruce's aloofness, Ollie's bitterness about being fooled by Bruce, Clark's conflict-avoidance, Dick's desperation for friends, Roy's false bravado, and some really spicy chili...(a/k/a the time Dick stopped two brawls, one with judo and one with Earth, Wind, and Fire)





	1. Starters

**Author's Note:**

> Given the amount of music in this installment, it seems like a good time to link you guys to my [World's Finest Playlist on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3jK2L1KsRVuMCYIToM4oZ8). Drop the needle and embrace the retro romance, or at the very least, listen to the tunes featured in this fic, by Siouxsie and the Banshees, the Proclaimers, Earth Wind and Fire, and Frank Sinatra.
> 
> This one's a little longer than usual, so I've split it into three chapters.

 

After dismantling Toyman’s last robot, Clark glanced over at the scrolling marquee on the bank across the street. Local time as 7:32 PM—4:32 on the West Coast. Which meant it was time for him to head over to meet Bruce and Dick in Star City—so that they could spend an evening with Oliver Queen and Dinah Lance and Roy Harper.

Clark had actually been incredibly supportive of the idea when Bruce had first mentioned it, but the closer the time came, the less excited he was. Bruce wasn’t… _great_ … in groups. And he and Ollie had some weird rich-people history that Clark didn’t fully grasp. And Ollie himself had the tendency to be a bit stubborn. Exhibit A: rejecting the offer to join the League.

Maybe Clark was still offended by that. Bruce had explained it as some sort of self-protection measure, which sounded reasonable enough, but Ollie’s official answer had been _I don’t take orders_.

Clark’s brow furrowed even thinking about it. It was such a fundamental misunderstanding of the League, of—no. He wasn’t going to think about that. He was going to be positive.

He intercepted the plane somewhere in Nevada, and knocked on a window where Bruce was sitting. Bruce didn’t even look out the window—just stood up and opened a hatch.

Clark dropped in and Bruce handed him a change of street clothes.

“I got your bag,” Bruce said, “in case you need anything else. Otherwise, we’ll leave it with ours until we reach the hotel.”

“No, this is fine,” said Clark, ducking into the lavatory and then swiftly emerging in a pair of jeans and a blue-and-grey flannel shirt. “Uneventful flight?”

“Mm. Dick’s been trying to get me to play Mad Libs, but otherwise, it’s been fine.”

Clark chuckled and then popped into the cockpit to say a quick hello to Alfred before crossing over to where Dick was sitting.

“Hey, Clark!”

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, slipping into Bruce’s window-seat opposite Dick. Bruce took the seat next to Clark, though not before eyeing his old seat like lost territory. “You excited?”

“ _Am_ I,” said Dick, with a wide grin. “I reread Roy Harper’s dossier, and it’ll be cool to meet him… but… I don’t know. People are different in person. I was thinking… if he and Wally get along, it would be really cool to do something together, you know?”

Clark nodded along, but if Roy and Wally were like their mentors, a fast friendship didn’t seem promising. “You can be friends with them even if they _don’t_ get along,” Clark reminded him.

“You don’t _have_ to be friends at all,” Bruce added.

Dick swallowed, suddenly missing his usual confidence. “Is… there some reason we wouldn’t be?”

Bruce arched an eyebrow. “No.”

Dick’s brow knit, and he looked out the window.

“Hey, kiddo,” Clark said, reaching across to squeeze Dick’s knee. “It’ll be fine. Our worries don’t need to be yours.”

“Your worries about what? About Ollie?”

Clark hesitated and then nodded. Maybe he shouldn’t be sharing their concerns, but it was better that Dick understand and not worry too much himself.

“But I thought you _knew_ Ollie,” Dick said, staring Bruce down.

“I do,” Bruce said. “He doesn’t know me.”

Clark tensed at that. “Bruce… did you not… tell him?”

“I had Dinah do it.”

“Really?” That didn’t seem right: Bruce relinquishing control over something so personal. “Why?”

“To make this evening less painful. Ollie tries to compete enough without me dropping that in his lap unexpected.”

Clark sighed and looked out the window at the clouds crawling by. “Can we all just _try_ to get along?” he asked.

“Obviously,” Bruce said. “Buckle up, Dick. Time to descend.”

***

They stepped up to the door Oliver Queen’s beachfront mansion ten minutes after six.

Clark took Bruce’s hand and gave it a light squeeze. “You’re sure you’re okay with this?”

Bruce nodded and slipped his hand free to ring the bell—not that they needed announcing after the gated driveway had needed unlocking. He looked down at Dick. They were here for him. Bruce wouldn’t back out now, even if he wanted to.

Dinah opened the door and grinned.

“Bruce! Clark!” she said. “And Dick—hi there! Come in, come in!”

They followed her inside through a foyer and into a vast and open living area. A wall of windows overlooked the water and let in evening light across the contemporary space. One one side, a u-shaped sectional surrounded a strange television-fireplace-waterfall combination wall. On the other side lay a shining steel kitchen, where Ollie was tending a range with an athletic teenage boy that had to be Roy.

“Ollie’s just working on dinner,” Dinah explained. She turned around and called out, “They’re here!”

“Coming!” Ollie carried over a bowl of chips and dropped it on a coffee table. “Clark, good to see you again,” he said, holding his hand out for a practiced shake. “And Dick! How’s it hanging?”

Dick forced a smile. “It’s good.”

“And Bruce! Brucie. Wow.” Ollie laughed and pulled Bruce into a giant hug, and Clark’s breath hitched in concern. No one hugged Bruce like that. Except maybe Clark. Maybe.

Bruce was stiff at first, but then he suddenly loosened his posture and clapped Ollie on the back with a honeyed laugh.

It wasn’t the real Bruce.

It wasn’t that Clark hated the act. Not at all—it had its appeal. But Clark had thought that since these were fellow heroes, maybe they could just be themselves. Apparently that was too much to hope for.

“Ollie—it’s been a while,” said Bruce.

“Sure has,” said Ollie, stepping back and appraising Bruce. “Dinah told me your little secret—I couldn’t _believe_ it.”

Bruce shrugged, clearly refusing to engage further on the subject.

Ollie squinted at Bruce for a moment longer than was comfortable, but then gestured back to the kitchen.

“And that’s Roy, on the stove. Hey! Royo! Come meet our guests.”

Roy covered a pot with a lid and wiped his hands before running over. “Hi,” he said, smiling wide.

“This is Roy Harper, my… uh. Son? Foster son. Ward. Something.”

Roy scoffed. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, boss.”

“The legalities are complicated,” Dinah explained, looking fondly at the boy. “That’s all.”

“We’re familiar with that,” Bruce said, smoothing over the situation.

“Nice to meet you, Roy. I’m Clark,” Clark said, offering a hand. “Um. Also Superman.”

“ _You_ ’re Superman?” Roy asked, shaking Clark’s hand.

“Sure am. And this is Bruce Wayne—uh, Batman.”

Bruce held out a hand himself. “I’ve heard a lot of good things,” he said.

“You have?” Roy looked behind at Ollie, who shrugged.

“I _have_. And this is Dick.”

Dick stepped forward. “Dick Grayson. Foster son, ward, something,” he said, winking.

Roy laughed, and then cocked his head, looking Dick over. “You’re Robin, huh?”

“So you’ve _heard_ of me,” said Dick, cutting through any potential tension.

“Hey Roy, you want to show Dick around?” Ollie offered.

Roy lit up. “Can I show him _downstairs_ too?”

Ollie gave a nod of approval, and Roy jerked his head toward a hallway leading away from the open area.

“C’mon,” he said, leading Dick away.

***

“Well, come in,” said Ollie. “Take a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”

Bruce glanced over at Clark to communicate something like _I will never be comfortable here_ , but Clark just smiled back and moved over to the u-shaped sectional to take a seat. Bruce walked in the direction, but he hovered, not quite willing to sit.

“What are you drinking?” Ollie asked. “We have it all.”

“Whatever you’re having,” said Clark, as Bruce said, “Just a seltzer for me.”

Ollie shook his head. “ _Seltzer_? I never thought I’d see the day that Brucie Wayne turns down a drink.”

Bruce looked over to Clark, who clenched his jaw. The options weren’t great: continue a lie, or be himself and throw the lie in Ollie’s face. Clark wasn’t sure which would be worse.

“I don’t… drink,” Bruce admitted.

“But… Last month at the Tech Expo, you were bringing down the house! if you weren’t _drinking_ at all those parties—”

“Ginger ale,” Bruce answered. “Tonic. Sometimes alcohol, but not much.”

“Gin and tonic, hold the gin?”

“Hh. Something like that.”

“That’s disgusting, you know that?”

Bruce shrugged again.

“You think you _know_ a guy,” Ollie said, crossed back to the kitchen.

Dinah, meanwhile, opened the glass top of a record player and turned a few dials for the speakers and the player, and then set the needle down.

“I can change it if you’d like,” she said, just before the music started.

Clark shook his head, though he didn’t recognize the music.

Bruce though, went into deep concentration after two bars, and perked up as soon as a voice came through the speakers. “Is this Siouxsie and the Banshees?”

“It _is_ ,” said Dinah, clearly impressed. “Are you… a _fan_?”

Bruce shrugged one shoulder. “There are a few good songs.”

“Have you listened it on vinyl?”

“Not since… A long time ago.”

Dinah laughed and ushered him over. “This system’s great. And the sound is more authentic on vinyl. Here, you have to try.”

Bruce dragged his feet to where Dinah stood, and she plugged a pair of oversized headphones into the system, and the music dampened.

“Sorry, Clark,” she said. “Easier to appreciate the subtleties this way.”

“Oh, I can hear it just fine.”

“Of course you can.” Dinah laughed and handed the headphones to Bruce. “Try it.”

He obliged, and she moved the needle to a new song. She watched him intently, waiting for a reaction, and slowly, it came, subtle as it was. It started with a slight smile, and then Bruce nodded slowly in half-time. Dinah responded with a brighter smile and a tapping rhythm to the music she could no longer hear.

Bruce was acting so… _normal_. Not quite an act. This was definitely _Bruce_ , with his appreciation for haunting music sung by someone who probably used up a full wand of black eyeliner every week. But sharing that interest with someone, _that_ was different.

Then again, he had his own familiarity with Dinah and her mother, the Canaries of Gotham City and beyond. As allies, of course. It wasn’t like they had any romantic history, though you wouldn’t know it from how close they sat, or the appreciative smile Bruce gave Dinah, or the way she leaned in. Even if it _was_ probably just to hear the music better.

Clark dragged his eyes away from them, refusing to fall into some stupid completely unfounded jealousy. It was good that Bruce was connecting with a fellow League member over something other than tactics.

Ollie returned then, handing Clark an opened bottle of some local IPA and setting Bruce’s seltzer down. He eyed Bruce warily. He _hoped_ Bruce was being friendly, and not _trying_ to stir up some kind of jealousy. Bruce wasn’t petty like that.

At least, he wasn’t _that_ petty.

“She said it’s more authentic that way,” Clark explained, excusing the familiarity.

“I remember that line,” Ollie remarked, then mumbling under his breath, “Like _he_ cares about authenticity.” It was low—low enough that it hadn’t been meant for Clark to hear. Ollie wasn’t used to super-hearing like Bruce and Dick were. Clark looked away, hoping Ollie wouldn’t realize his mistake.

There was clearly more to the Brucie-Ollie relationship than both being rich kids. And if Ollie thought Bruce was some kind of threat… well. That didn’t bode well for a peaceful evening. His shoulders tightened at the thought of it.

“Thanks for having us, Ollie,” Clark said, taking his beer. “This is really great.”

Ollie’s attention snapped away from Bruce and Dinah. “No problem,” he said. “Dinah said it might be good for the boys, so…” He shrugged.

“Right,” Clark said. “The boys. They’ll be back up soon, huh?”

He could only hope.

***

“That’s the house,” Roy said, shrugging. He stopped in front of a bookcase and grinned. “Wanna see the Arrowcave?”

Dick raised an eyebrow and bit back a laugh. “You call it the _Arrow_ -cave?”

“Ollie does, so…” Roy shrugged and led them through a trap door and into a basement that held all the trappings of a vigilante home-base: training dummies, shooting ranges, a computer system, garage of cars and motorcycles. Except it was so… _modern_. Like it had been professionally designed. And it wasn’t drafty at all.

“You know the Batcave is like, an _actual cave_ ,” Dick noted.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. Like. Stalagmites. Stalactites. Actual bats.” Dick fluttered his hand across the air, making a bat-like sound with his breath. “All the time.”

“Weird.”

“I mean, yeah, I _guess_.” Dick found it much weirder to call a place a cave when it wasn’t remotely a cave, but he kept that to himself.

“Did he like… find a cave full of bats to fit the theme? Because that’s a little…” Roy made a face to complete his sentence, and Dick let out his contained laughter.

“No,” he said through his giggling. “No, he’s not… _that_ weird. It’s just below the Manor. The Batcave was there before the Batman. Like, that’s _why_ he’s the _Bat-_ man and not… I don’t know. Birdman.”

“ _You_ ’re the Bird-man,” Roy noted wryly.

Dick grinned. It wasn’t at all clear whether that was a compliment or not, but Dick chose to take it that way. “I guess I am.”

“Not that _robins_ are very intimidating,” Roy said, leading them through the so-called cave.

“They are when they start kicking you in the teeth,” Dick countered, shrugging. He was used to it—bad guys laughing at the name, until they didn’t. “It was actually originally more of a Robin _Hood_ thing, but—”

Roy spun back and cocked his head. “No shit?”

“Yeah.”

“Ollie’s obsessed.”

“I… uh. Figured.” Dick nodded back to where Ollie’s suits hung, all green and medieval, with feathered caps to boot.

Roy laughed and grabbed a bow, twirling it around his wrist effortlessly. He was so ridiculously _cool_. Hopefully Dick was able to keep up. “You know how to shoot?”

“Uh, the basics,” Dick said, rubbing a nervous hand against the back of his neck. Between growing up at Haly’s and training with Bruce, Dick had learned just about every skill that could possibly become useful in the field, and he wasn’t really _bad_ at any of them, but he wasn’t about to compare himself to Green Arrow and Speedy, the best archers around.

“Show me what you’ve got,” Roy said, tossing it to Dick, who caught the bow by the handle and inspected it.

“Um.” Dick picked up an arrow from a nearby rack, but his confidence and cool demeanor were completely shot. “It’s… been a while,” he lied.

He drew the bow and held the nocked arrow by his cheek. He tried to aim, but the arrow began to wobble in and out of the sights.

“Breathe,” Roy advised.

Dick tried. He was already angry at himself for getting nervous—nerves never made for good performance. And now, Roy was going to think that he was mediocre, and they’d only just met, and—

“Here, you need to—” Roy stepped up and adjusted his grip. “Push forward with the bow.”

Then took his shoulders and turned them slightly.

It didn’t help. Dick dropped his form entirely.

“I’m good,” he said, trying to hide his embarrassment. He handed Roy the bow.

Roy screwed up his eyebrows and looked at Dick in confusion. “Look. You just… set the bow…”

Dick watched carefully as he demonstrated and narrated.

“Breathe in. Breathe out and set your body. Breathe in as you raise it,” he said, doing the same, “breathe out, and release.” The arrow flew perfectly to the target.

“I know that,” Dick grumbled.

“Then _do_ it!” Roy pushed the bow back to Dick.

“Why do you care so much?”

“Well, I hear you’re such a hot-shot—guess I wanted to see if it was all bluster.”

Dick’s face pinched. “I’m not—” he started, not sure how he could make an honest sentence out of that. “I’m not an archer. I’m an acrobat.”

“Right… but…” Roy looked around. “Maybe if I help you with your shot, you’ll teach me some sweet judo moves?”

Dick laughed, easing up with the reminder that he had plenty of skills beyond this one. Roy was the best archer around. But Dick was the best at… a lot of things. And maybe Roy had been just as intimidated by him as Dick had been by Roy.

“Okay, fair,” he said with a smile.

He took the bow again, imitated Roy’s stance and recalled Bruce’s lessons, and let the arrow fly. It hit just a centimeter away from Roy’s. Granted, Roy could do it all blind-folded, at nine shots per second, but at least Dick hadn’t embarrassed himself. The bowstring snapped into his arm, but he grimaced back the pain, refusing to let it show.

“ _Nice_!” Roy shouted, clapping him on the back. “Here, try again. Line up your shot, and we’ll get it closer.”

Dick did as instructed, and then Roy took a step forward.

“Okay, don’t take this as anything weird,” he warned, before stepping up behind Dick. He reached around to guide Dick’s handling—straightening the bow in line with his stance, raising the arrow against his cheek. He was close, close enough that Dick felt his own inhaling chest press against Roy’s.

It _was_ weird. A _lot_ weird.

Dick released the bow as quickly as he could and stepped away out from Roy. The shot went wide.

“I said not—”

“I’m fine,” said Dick, putting the bow back on the rack.

“I was just trying to _help_!”

“I didn’t _ask_ for help!” Dick shouted.

Roy watched him. Studied him. And then Roy laughed and said, “ _I_ get it. I drive all the ladies wild. Figures you, too—”

“That’s _not_ what’s happening,” Dick countered, though he wasn’t as quick with a justification. Not that he should need one. He’d only just _met_ Roy. He hadn’t asked for an archery lesson, and he certainly hadn’t asked for help.

“It’s cool. It’s the red hair,” he said, running his hands through it to demonstrate.

“It’s _really_ not,” Dick said, having gathered his nerves back.

“If you say so.” Roy shrugged.

What was it with over-confident redheads, anyway?

Speaking of.

“Hey,” said Dick, desperate for a change of topic, “have you met Kid Flash?”

Roy shook his head. “Ollie says the Flashes are square.”

“Nah, they’re cool,” Dick countered. Before Roy could object, he pulled out his phone and clicked the speed-dial to Wally’s number and turned it to speaker.

“Yellllll-o?” Wally answered. Roy looked unimpressed.

“Hey! It’s Dick.”

“I know who it is, dumbass,” Wally answered. “This is a cell phone.”

Roy smirked.

“I’m with Speedy.”

“Wait, like… Arrow-Speedy?”

“Yeah. I thought you two should, uh, I don’t know. Say hi?”

“Hi,” said Roy, obligingly.

“You’re together? In person?”

“Yeah,” Dick said, “Bruce and Clark are here on some kind of painfully awkward double-date with Ollie and Dinah.”

“Yikes,” said Wally. “Does that make you the… fifth and sixth wheels?”

“Guess so,” said Roy.

“Well,” Dick reasoned, “it’s not so bad, since we can hang out together, but—”

“Where _are_ you guys?” Wally interrupted.

“The Arrowcave,” Roy answered, crossing his arms.

“Arrowcave?”

“Green Arrow’s HQ,” Dick explained.

“Oh, like the Batcave, cool cool cool,” came Wally’s voice. “But I meant like, _where_ where? I can drop by, if—”

“1538 Soundview Drive,” said Roy.

Dick’s eyes went wide.

“Come around the back unless you want to deal with explaining yourself to the bossmen.”

“Got it,” said Wally, hanging up the phone.

“What the _hell_?” Dick asked, spinning on Roy. “You just _gave out_ your _address_?”

“Sorry—he knows your _name_. Is he not trustworthy?”

“ _He_ is! The _line_ isn’t secure, though!”

Roy looked down at the phone and then nodded. “Point taken. Come on—we have to let him in.”

Roy walked over to a door and pressed his hand to a pad. It registered his clearance, and the door unlatched and opened onto a gorgeous grassy lawn overlooking the Sound. Wally was standing twenty feet to the side, on the driveway, and then he was next to them.

“So _you_ ’re the guy who took the best speedster name?” Wally asked.

Roy grinned. “And I guess you’re the guy everyone thinks I am these days.”

“Yeesh, sorry. Pretty sure that’s your fault.”

“Hey— _Ollie_ gave me the name.”

“So we blame him?”

“That’s what I tend to do, yeah.” Roy laughed and propped the door open with his foot. “So, are we inside? Outside?”

Dick shrugged. “Outside’s nice.”

“Kay.” The door swung shut with a screech and a thud, and all three boys winced, realizing that the sound had probably been heard upstairs.

And sure enough, Clark was suddenly there, on the balcony, looking down at them. “Boys? Dick?”

“Hi, Clark,” Dick said. The other boys waved up at him.

“Kid Flash?”

“Hi, Super—Mister Kent!”

“What’s happening out here?”

“I was just introducing them,” Dick explained.

“I’m not staying,” Wally added. “Gotta get home for dinner.”

“Your folks know you’re here?”

“Uhhhh…” Wally looked between Dick and Roy for some kind of answer.

“They don’t _know_ , Clark,” Dick reminded him.

“They think I’m at the store,” Wally said, shrugging.

Clark furrowed his brow. “They might get worried. If something happens—”

“I _really_ don’t think so,” Wally mumbled, which only made Clark’s brow furrow deeper.

“I can bring you back,” he offered. “It’s really no trouble.”

“No, I’m good! You just, uh, enjoy your, uh… date, or whatever.”

Clark looked behind him at where the other adults were gathered. When he turned back, he wore a pained smile. “Yeah. Right. If you’re _sure_?”

“Positive.”

“Okay then.” And then he was gone again.

Roy leaned against a post under the deck and looked Wally over. “So, what’s your story? Flash isn’t your dad?”

Wally shook his head. “Uncle. Or—almost. He’s engaged to my aunt.”

“He a wacko millionaire too? He can join the club upstairs.”

“No way,” Wally laughed. “He works for the police.”

Roy’s face soured.

Dick clenched his jaw, anticipating the conflict. Ollie had apparently called the Flashes square—this must be why.

“I didn’t realize the Flash was a _pig_ ,” Roy spat.

Wally threw his shoulders back and stepped forward. “What the hell’d you say?”

Dick threw his hands between them and gave a warning glare to each.

It didn’t work, apparently, because Roy followed with, “All cops are pigs. They’re tools of a fascist system.”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Wally countered, so articulately.

“Okay, chill out,” Dick warned, lowering his hands in an overly optimistic gesture. “It’s not that black and white.”

Roy shrugged. “Is to me. You know how many times they’ve tried to arrest me and Ollie? You know how many _innocent_ people they throw in jail? Or kill? But they don’t do shit about the fat cats.”

“O-kay,” Dick said. “That’s—totally valid. There are bad cops, for sure. But there are good ones, too. But you can’t throw the Flash in with the rotten ones.”

“Sure I can. If he’s on the payroll, he’s complicit,” Roy argued.

Wally looked like he was ready to throw down, and Dick wasn’t eager to see that fight.

“You know _why_ Barry works there?” Wally spat out. “Because he _knows_ all that. He’s a _scientist_ , trying to make sure they arrest people based on actual evidence and not bullshit. So don’t you _dare_ —” Wally said, shoving Roy in the chest for good measure, “call him a _pig_.”

Dick stepped between them, urging Wally back. “Come on, Roy. You guys don’t call in the cops to take in perps after you apprehend them?”

Roy scoffed. “No.”

“Oh.” All right. Plan B. “But Dinah’s _dad_ was GCPD—do you act like this with _her_?”

Roy opened his mouth to answer, but Wally was already shouting, “Oooooh daaamn. You’re a total _hypocrite_!”

That had not been the effect Dick was aiming for.

Roy held up his arms. “You wanna _go_ , Swizzle Stick?”

“Yeah, maybe I do, youselfrighteoussbastard,” said Wally, zipping around Dick.

Roy squared himself off, and Wally took a breath, gearing himself up for a fight.

Dick rolled his eyes and sized up each of them. He’d have to hit Wally first—before he could avoid it.

He kicked the speedster’s feet from under and floored him, and then grabbed Roy’s arm and flipped him down to the ground.

“Ow,” Roy grumbled.

“Be grateful you’re on grass,” Dick snapped. “Now get up and apologize.”


	2. Dinner

“So…” Ollie glanced over at Bruce, checking to make sure he was lost in the sound of the music. “His whole… _thing_. It’s just an act?”

Clark nodded. “Ninety percent,” he judged.

Ollie whistled. “Unnerving. Like, this is a guy I thought I knew. And we go back—I mean, we were always on different coasts, but… weird to realize the guy you know doesn’t even exist. And he’s just… _Batman_.”

“He’s not _just_ Batman. He’s… something in between.” Clark’s eyes fell on Bruce, on the little glimmer in his eye, doing something so mundane as listening to music. There was something extraordinary in every moment like that, little glimpses of normalcy peeking through the heavy cover of Bruce’s unusual, closed-off life. “And something more.”

“Hm.” Ollie leaned back and drank his beer. “So the ten percent that’s real… what do you think _that_ is?”

Clark squinted as he thought. “He’s charming, when he wants to be. You can’t fake that. He just usually doesn’t want to be. He has a sense of humor—he pretends not to as Batman, but he does. That’s real. And I think… sometimes, when he’s pretending to be really boozed up, he lets himself say what he _really_ thinks. Tells off the leeches and snobs. Those moments—that’s him.”

“Now _that’s_ the Brucie I know and love.” Ollie barked a victorious laugh. “I’m glad that’s _real_ , at least.”

Clark looked over and grinned. “Me too.”

“God, you would’ve loved to hear some of the shit he threw at Lexie…” Ollie laughed to himself. “We had this… godawful press tour, right? After I got back from the Island, and Bruce was back from… wherever the hell he went, and Lex had just shot to the top of all the lists of who to watch.”

“I’ve heard.”

“Well. We drank… a lot. Or I guess _I_ did. Lex is—no surprise—not fun at all. And apparently Bruce just drinks _seltzer_.” Ollie shook his head. “Well, now I sound like a total loser. But whatever—I _thought_ I had a drinking buddy in old Brucie. Maybe I did back then, maybe I didn’t. But after an evening, when Lex would start getting snide, you know, thinking we were too stupid or hammered to catch his meaning, Bruce would just… _rip_ into that robber-baron Atlas-Shrugged piece of shit.”

“Seriously?”

“Mmhmm. And then he’d just smooth it over with his honey-sweet grin and add some kind of bullshit compliment, and the next morning act like he didn’t remember any of it. Drove Lexie-boy _crazy_.”

Clark laughed. Maybe Ollie wasn’t so bad.

“One time—” Ollie started, but Dinah called out, “Clark!”

She waved him over, and Ollie nodded in agreement, so Clark got up and crossed over to Bruce and Dinah.

“Your turn,” she said, and Bruce passed Clark the headphones.

“I told you,” Clark said, “I could—”

“It’s not the same,” Dinah insisted.

Clark looked to Bruce who shrugged, so Clark obliged, letting the music take over. It didn’t block out everything else, but it _was_ different. Fuller. “ _But oh-oh, oh your city lies in dust, my friend_ ,” warned the haunting lyrics.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Dinah asked.

He gave her a thumbs up—not that he was partial to the style of music, exactly, but he could see the appeal of it.

Bruce drew away, circling to the back of the couch where Ollie sat.

“Quite a girl you’ve got there,” he muttered. Clark looked over to see Bruce leaning over, keeping his words close to Ollie’s ear. There was a hint of challenge in his words, along with a hint of admiration.

“Don’t I know it.”

“Hh. Don’t mess this one up, Ollie.”

“Yeah. You _know_ I will,” Ollie said, resigned to it.

Bruce looked down with the unsurprised disappointment that might be appropriate for a toddler making a mess of their dinner for the fifth night in a row. A little sad. A little pitying. A little wearied.

Clark turned back to Dinah as the chorus repeated, but he kept an ear on Ollie and Bruce.

“What’s it like dating Big Blue?”

“Good.”

“He as _super_ in bed as everywhere else?”

Clark nearly spit out a swig of his IPA, and faked a cough to cover it.

Bruce took the question with more grace, though he said, “You know he can _hear_ you.”

Ollie shrugged. “Is that a no?”

“It’s _not_ a no. It’s not a yes. It’s a _no comment_.”

“Mmhmm. So the real Bruce doesn’t kiss and tell, huh? You sure aren’t the Bruce from that redeye from Dubai?”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be _cooking_?”

Ollie craned his neck to look back at the kitchen, where a timer was counting close to zero. “You offering to help?”

“You don’t want his help,” Clark warned, forgetting that he wasn’t really _supposed_ to be hearing them.

“ _Told_ you he was listening.”

“It’s fine,” said Ollie, kicking his feet back to the floor and standing up. “I’ve got it.”

“No. I’ll help,” Bruce insisted.

Ollie looked at Bruce as if he were a particularly puzzle, and then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

The song ended, and Clark took off the headphones, handing them to Dinah. “Very nice,” he said.

She grinned, unplugging them and letting the next song flood through the speaker. “I wish I had this in _my_ place,” she lamented. “I don’t have room for records.”

“I know how that is,” Clark said. “These guys… it’s a different world.”

“No kidding. I went to this political thing with Ollie… I thought it was going to be a rally, you know? Music, signs, marching.” She shook her head. “It was five hundred dollars a plate, and Ollie had to buy me a dress for it. To talk about gentrification in Star City—and no one blinked an eye at the ridiculousness of it all.” 

Clark laughed. “Those are Bruce’s bread and butter. But if you think about—it’s getting them to drop a lot of money on hiring caterers, musicians, cleaning staff, security, valets… I’m pretty sure Bruce has rehabilitated a good four dozen former henchmen by getting them jobs with vendors that he makes sure he hires regularly. He talks like a pessimist, but then he trusts some guy who used to wear a question-mark suit to serve h’ors d’oeuvres.”

Dinah raised an eyebrow. “Remind me to _never_ go to a society function in Gotham. Though maybe being poisoned would be better than hobnobbing with some of those people… I don’t know how Bruce keeps up that act, making it look like he _enjoys_ it.”

“It’s what Gotham needs.” He shrugged. “Bruce Wayne’s relentless optimism give them hope, and his drunken antics give them something to talk about other than… you know. How many people got bludgeoned to death in the past week. It’s not _just_ about deception.”

“Huh.” Dinah cocked her head, considering Clark’s words. “I wish he’d tell _Ollie_ that.”

Dinah and Clark both looked over at the kitchen, but Dinah was spared hearing them.

“And it’s all energy-efficient too,” Ollie was boasting. “Benefit of moving out of the dusty old family manse.”

“Wasn’t that place only built in _nineteen-hundred_?” Bruce asked. Somehow, he made it sound like an insult.

“What’re they on about now?”

“Kitchens?” Clark shook his head. Of all the things to boast about… “I don’t even _have_ a kitchen. Just a little… corner with a mini-fridge and two burners.”

Dinah laughed. “Gosh, I don’t miss _that_ about back East. Not that you can fit more than one person at a time in mine, so…” She shrugged.

Clark’s ears piqued, hearing a subject change, but it was worse now. Ollie had switched to bragging about the Arrowcar. That couldn’t end well.

“New model,” he was saying, “zero to sixty in 2.8 seconds. And that’s just under the hood. Loaded it up with new gear. We can take her for a spin after dinner, maybe.”

“Batmobile does 2.3,” Bruce said with a shrug. “

“But is the Batmobile _fully_ _electric_?” Ollie countered, loudly enough for his voice to carry to Dinah’s ears.

She rolled her eyes.

“Better not misfire an EMP-arrow,” Bruce mumbled.

“I didn’t realize about their whole…” He waved between the two of them.

“Dick-measuring contest?” Dinah supplied.

“I was going to say _rivalry_ ,” said Clark. “But sure. That.”

“Yeah,” Dinah sighed. “ _That_ part of it goes way back. Apparently Ollie’s dad liked to use Bruce as an example of what Ollie should be more like. I’m talking like, a _long_ time ago. And then Bruce disappeared. And then Ollie disappeared. And when Ollie came back, Bruce was as much a mess as the rest of the trust-fund crowd, while Ollie was creating this whole Arrow business.”

“So Oliver was proud of himself for growing up, taking on the protection of his city while Bruce Wayne…”

“Had apparently been training to be Batman for _years_? Yeah. That news didn’t land well” Dinah grimaced. “And the worst part of telling him? He thought Bruce was his _friend_. Now he feels like he was played.”

That was a lot to take in. If only he’d _known_ this ahead of time… maybe they could have accounted for it. Or not come at all.

“Honestly,” Dinah said, “this is going better than I expected.”

Clark looked back at the kitchen and then to the balcony, where Ollie and Bruce were now in some heated competition, trying to one-up each other on the latest vigilante tech. “ _Better_? What did you _expect_?”

Dinah laughed. “God knows. No one’s thrown any punches.”

Clark swallowed, eyes wide. He’d just expected awkwardness. Not a fist fight. “Does Bruce know that that’s how Ollie feels?”

“I mean.” She squinted one eye. “He’s Batman. He must, right?”

“Right,” Clark sighed. Was that better or worse? 

“I figured that’s why he outsourced the job to me.”

“It would’ve been… helpful,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “if you’d’ve told me. We’re in this together, Dinah.”

She crossed her legs and leaned back on the high-pile rug. “Listen, Clark,” she said. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but… I’m not Ollie’s keeper. We’re not… serious or anything. It’s only been a few months.”

“Right. Yeah. Same.” If he actually did the math of it—late June to early October—that’s all it had been. But he and Bruce had known each other for quite some time before they’d started dating. They’d done things backwards from most couples, who maybe flirted and then formed a friendship and trust. He’d trusted Bruce with his deepest secrets before he really could have called him a friend, and then they were friends long before they’d fallen into this.

“Maybe you and Bruce are different,” she continued, “but I’m not gonna try to change Ollie, or make him like people he doesn’t like. I’m not his wife or his mother.”

“I’m not—” Clark’s face reddened. “I’m not trying to _change_ anyone. I just want this evening to go well. I assume you do, too.”

It wasn’t entirely that simple. Dinah was in the League. Ollie _could_ be, if he stopped being a stubborn ass about it. 

Clark sighed. This evening wasn’t just about him. Though, in some ways, it was. It about how precious time off was, and how little interest he had in spending said precious time off navigating some mire of resentment and rivalry. 

But it was even more about Dick, having friends that were like him. Clark never got that. And in the end, that was why they’d really come, why Bruce had suggested it in the first place.

“Work with me, Dinah,” Clark pled. “If not for us, and not for _them_ —then for the boys. You care about Roy.”

Dinah’s gaze fell to the side, and she smiled. “He’s a good kid.”

From what Clark was hearing from the boys outside, _good kid_ didn’t seem like totally accurate appraisal, but he wasn’t about to make this any worse than it was. Dick would smooth things over.

“So is Dick. So let’s make sure the _guardians_ ,” he said, nodding toward the kitchen, “don’t ruin it for their wards.”

***

“Apologize,” Dick repeated, unconsciously lowering his voice for the added authority. Maybe he should’ve taken a step back, being younger than either of them and being Roy’s guest. But he hardened his expression and crossed his arms. 

Wally pushed himself back up, but he didn’t say anything. Of course—he thought he was the only one who deserved an apology.

Roy followed suit, but then he ran a hand through his hair, considered Wally, and said, “I guess your uncle doesn’t sound _so_ bad.”

Wally looked at Dick with an offended expression. “That’s _not_ an apology.”

“It counts. _Your_ turn.”

Wally rolled his eyes, but then sighed. “Sorry for getting in your face. I just. Barry’s a really solid guy. I guess I… got defensive.”

He held out a hand. Roy took it, and Dick sighed with relief.

“Say, you two wanna go for a drive?” Roy offered. “Ollie probably won’t let me take the Arrowcar, but I can talk him into keys to one of the others.”

“You can _drive_?” Wally asked.

Roy shrugged. “I mean. I have a permit.”

“Soooo… you _can’t_ drive.”

“Listen, remember what I said about cops?”

“Uh, _yes_.”

“Yeah, well. No one’s gonna bust the son of Ollie Queen for _safely_ driving. One of the benefits of living with Richie Rich.”

“Maybe another time,” Dick said. “Wally shouldn’t stay long if his parents only think he’s at the store.”

Wally’s face fell and his gaze caught on an errant seabird. “Yeah… Dick’s right. I’m probably already in for it. Definitely another time, though?”

Roy nodded. “You got it. Hey—I didn’t get your name.”

“Oh! It’s Wally. West.”

“Roy Harper.”

“I’m Dick Grayson,” Dick offered, completely unnecessarily. 

Wally laughed and thwacked Dick upside the head, messing up his hair. “Yeah, you _dork_. We _know_.”

Dick laughed and swatted at Wally’s arm, of course failing to make contact.

“Bye, Roy!” Wally shouted, and then blurred out into the distance, lightning crackling in his wake.

Roy crossed his arms and looked between Dick and the trail of light and then smirked.

“What?”

“Nothing. He’s cool.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Sorry for fighting with him. I know you’re friends. I just—I’ve had bad experiences with cops.”

“It’s… okay,” Dick said. “It’s over.”

“Seriously, though. You two can come by sometime. Like, when he’s actually allowed to.”

That lifted the last tension. “That’d be awesome.”

“His parents sound like hard-asses.”

“Yeah,” Dick sighed.

“Least he’s got ‘em. Unlike us, huh?”

Dick looked over and nodded. From what Wally had shared, he wasn’t actually that lucky, but Wally had told him about the Wests in confidence, so he didn’t say anything else about it. 

“Bruce told me about your dad,” Dick said. “I’m sorry.”

“Which _one_?”

Dick opened his mouth, hesitating. He’d read the dossier—he should’ve spoken more clearly. Roy’s biological father died when Roy was two, and then Roy’s adoptive father had passed away recently. “Both. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s cool.” Roy sat down and stared out at the horizon, the sun dipping low over the water. “I don’t really remember Harper Senior. I have his name, stories… that’s all. That doesn’t mean it’s nothing. But that’s not the hard one.”

“Yeah,” said Dick, sitting in turn. “I get that.”

“You know what’s crazy?”

Dick shook his head.

“Sometimes I miss it. The rez. Like, what kind of idiot am I, huh? I live in a _mansion_ now. But I had… a community, you know? Maybe I wouldn’t have really belonged in the end, I don’t know. But that was my family. And now I’m… here.” He gestured behind and around him. “Just me and Ollie. He’s cool. For sure. It’s just… different.”

The dull ache in Dick’s chest grew to a piercing one as Roy spoke. It was too familiar. “That’s not crazy at all,” he said. “I know what you mean about… about community. The circus had a lot of that. And… Bruce is _really_ great, even he seems a little intense. And Alfred—our butler—he’s always around. And Clark, now. But it’s still lonely, without the troupe.”

Roy glanced over and gave an appreciative smile. “Not to mention the vigilante thing.”

“Yeah,” Dick laughed. “Not to mention.”

Dick looked back up to find Roy looking at him with a more reflective expression, as if he were considering something.

“What is it?”

“Maybe we just need to make our own.”

“Our own troupe?” Dick broke into a smile.

“Yeah, I don’t know. Ollie says the League’s full of egocentric douchebags, but—”

“Ollie’s full of shit,” Dick interrupted. “No offense.”

“ _Full_ offense,” Roy said, laughing.

Dick joined in, but they were cut off by the sound of the balcony door opening above them. Dick blanched for a second before remembering that Ollie did _not_ have super-hearing and that Clark would probably have supported Dick’s correction—aside from the language.

“Chili’s ready,” Ollie called.

“Oh, no,” said Roy, grimacing. “You should run, Dick. Save yourself.”

“Why?”

Roy pushed himself up and shook his head slowly. “R.I.P. Dick Grayson, killed at the tender age of thirteen.”

“Oh my _God_ , what’s the big deal?”

“You’ll see.” Roy led Dick along a path around the back and up stairs to the deck on the first floor. “My advice? Pile on the cheese and sour cream, and take extra bread. That’s how Dinah gets through it.”

“I can handle spice,” Dick argued.

“Yeah, you say that now.”

“Are you trashing my chili, Royo?” Ollie called.

“No, _sir_ ,” Roy answered as they reached the top of the stairs. “Just giving fair warning.”

Ollie reached an elbow around Roy’s neck and pulled him forward, ruffling up his hair. “You gave Dick the whole tour?”

“Yep,” said Roy. “Did you know the Batcave is an _actual_ cave? Like with _bats_?”

“No shit?” asked Ollie, looking back at Dick.

“Well. _Guano_ ,” Dick said, flashing a grin. Ollie burst out laughing, and they stepped back into the house.

***

“My world-famous chili,” Ollie said, passing around bowls, “with fry bread.”

“Fry bread?” Dick asked.

“It’s a rez thing. My dad taught Ollie to make it before I moved out here,” Roy explained.

Ollie eyed the pizza in the middle of the table. “Why’s the pizza out?”

“In case anyone wants it,” Dinah explained, tactfully.

“In case your chili’s inedible,” Roy clarified. When Ollie shot him an offended look, Roy countered, “Isn’t that _why_ you made it?”

“Well, sort of,” Ollie ceded. “But only as a _backup_. This makes it look like the main course!”

“Don’t worry, Mister Queen,” said Dick. “I can eat a _lot_.”

Dinah’s hand reached across to touch Dick’s wrist. “If you don’t like the chili, you don’t have to eat it.”

Clark raised his eyebrows. It was a lot of fanfare for a standard meal—and why serve something that required so much prefacing, anyway?

The answer, as it turned out, was that the chili was possibly the spiciest food Clark had ever tried. He could _handle_ it—in the way that he could handle gripping high voltage rails in his bare hands or flying close to the sun. But that didn’t mean he wanted to _eat_ subway tracks or sun flares.

No wonder Dinah had dumped half a tub of sour cream into her bowl. Roy chose to use the bread to scoop the chili a bit at a time. Poor Dick’s eyes were watering, but he didn’t complain at all or request pizza and instead just watched Dinah and Roy and imitated their coping mechanisms.

And Bruce… was just eating it. Like no big deal.

“You… _like_ it, Bruce?” Dinah asked.

Bruce tilted his head an inch to the side. “It’s not bad.”

Ollie squinted. “Maybe he’s not really eating it, and it’s just ginger ale.”

Bruce answered that by fixing Ollie in his gaze while he leaned forward, scooped a spoonful from Ollie’s bowl, and put it directly in his mouth.

“Satisfied?”

Ollie smiled, like Bruce had passed some kind of test, but he turned his attention away from Bruce and onto Dinah instead. “See?” he said. “It’s good. You just have to be man enough to eat it.”

“God, Ollie,” Dinah said, “for being so progressive, you can be a real neanderthal sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Roy agreed, stuffing fry bread into his mouth. “Sorry some of us still have some of our taste buds.”

“I suppose you are still a fragile boy-child,” Ollie teased, until a spot of chili hit him right on the nose.

Roy recovered his spoon fast enough to feign innocence, but Ollie eyed him while wiping the chili off his nose and beard. 

“You little shit,” he swore.

“Hm?” Roy shoveled an oversized spoonful of chili into his mouth. Of course, that only made him start to cough, so he fixed that problem by stuffing as much bread into his mouth as he could. “Wha’ I do?” he asked, through it all.

Dick snorted back laughter, and then grabbed his own nose. “Ow! It went through my nose!”

Clark zipped over to the kitchen and poured Dick a glass of milk while Ollie shouted, “You could’ve gotten ghost pepper in my eye!”

“Mmmm,” Roy hummed, shaking his head and swallowing. “But if _I’m_ the one who did it, then wouldn’t you also trust my aim?”

“He’s got you there, Ollie,” Dinah noted.

“You okay, Dick?” Bruce asked, as Clark handed him the glass of milk.

Dick nodded, though as soon as Bruce turned back to his own food, he whispered low, “It burns.”

Clark grimaced. He didn’t want to judge, but all the same… Pa would’ve had him grounded for a week for throwing Ma’s food at the table—not that Ma would’ve served something nigh inedible for guests.

“So,” Dinah said, pushing aside her bowl. “We were thinking we’d play a game? Have you guys played Settlers of Catan?”

Clark hadn’t. He looked at Bruce, who shook his head. 

“I don’t play a lot of _games_.”

Dick huffed, sending his bangs into the air.

“You’ll catch on quickly enough,” Ollie assured. “There are rules in the box, over there.”

He pointed to a red box, and Bruce leaned over and opened it, pulling out the instructions.

Bruce read the rules over, thoroughly, and set it down while everyone else continued their march of attrition through the chili. “It says there’s a five-and-six-player extension. Do you not have that?”

Ollie shook his head and started clearing the table. “It’s not as good that way.”

“But—”

“Bruce and I can team up,” Clark offered.

He expected _some_ reluctance from Bruce, but not the scathing glare he received.

“What? Why not?”

“ _No_ ,” Bruce said, as if that was an explanation.

“It’s just a game.”

“If I need a partner, I have a partner,” he clarified, eyes darting in Dick’s direction.

Dick laughed gleefully and then leaned in over the table. “You guys are going _down_ ,” he warned.


	3. Drinks

Ollie and Roy whispered to each other, and then Ollie said, “Anyone want wheat for wood?”

Bruce looked between Dick and the board. “Three wheat and it’s yours.”

“What the hell—”

“Just do it, Ollie,” Roy prodded.

Ollie and Bruce made the trade, and then Ollie dropped his new wood and a brick card into the bank and smugly placed a road on the board—right into Bruce’s path.

Dick took a sharp inhalation, and Ollie held his hands open. “You extort, you pay the price.”

“It’s not _extortion_ ,” Bruce argued. “It’s below the bank’s exchange rate!”

“My turn,” Clark interrupted.

***

Eight turns later, Dinah had a long and winding road across mostly worthless terrain, Bruce and Dick had expanded into four settlements, Ollie and Roy had managed to build their two settlements into two cities, and Clark was stuck with a heck of a lot of wheat. With two ports locked in, Bruce and Dick only become more obnoxious and guarded about trading, but their good cop/bad cop routine somehow worked.

And that’s when Clark started buying development cards instead.

The first two cards were Knights, which let him block off someone else’s land and steal a card. The problem was, he couldn’t quite bring himself to block resources. It was a mean and nasty way to get ahead that would only result in more stinginess over the existing cards, and anyway, the farm-boy in him couldn’t get over the _wrong_ -ness of it. It was like causing a drought. A fake game-drought, granted, but still.

So he used one to move the robber figurine onto the desert panel, blocking nothing.

He had fewer qualms about moving the robber off of his own land after Ollie had robbed it. The move had been done, _allegedly_ , because Bruce had also built on that tile, but Clark wasn’t about to lose access to his sheep just to hinder Bruce’s progress. As retaliation, he dropped the robber onto a piece of land shared by Ollie _and_ Bruce and took a card from Ollie.

Ore. Exactly what he needed for another development card.

And this time, it was a cheerful little scene of a marketplace. _1 Victory Point_ , the card said.

***

“Put the robber on _Dinah_!” Dick shouted at Ollie and Roy. “She doesn’t need any more bricks. And you could get lumber!”

Roy cocked his head, considering the less-than-objective advice.

“But you have more settlements. And you _also_ have lumber.”

“Clark has wheat,” Dick noted. “And he has like, six development cards just _sitting_ there. He could be about to _win_.”

Roy laughed. “They’re probably all Knights. Over half the cards are Knights, and Clark’s too nice to use them.”

Clark shrugged. They weren’t all Knights. He did have one more Knight card, but he also had a Year of Plenty ( _Take any 2 resources from the bank_ ) and a Monopoly card ( _Announce one type of resource. All other players must give you all their resource cards of that type._ ). And then there was his Market and his Chapel, which each gave him a Victory Point.

By his reckoning, if he played his cards right, his three little settlements could turn into two little settlements and one big city—giving him four points—and then the two cultural centers would give two, and the largest army would give two. That was eight points.

Not quite the ten needed to win.

“I’m not robbing Dinah,” Ollie declared.

Roy groaned. “Only because you’re trying to get in her _pants_.”

Dinah laughed and winked. Clark glanced over at Bruce, as if to say, _Thank goodness Dick isn’t so bold_.

Bruce just shook his head.

And so Ollie robbed Bruce and Dick.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Dick cried. “You’re gonna rob us _blind_.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have loudly declared yourself _the King of the Forests_ five minutes ago,” Ollie noted.

“So you _attack_ me?”

“Robin Hood,” Roy said, like that was a complete argument.

It seemed to work for Dick, who crossed his arms and growled, “You win this round, _Archers_. But vengeance is swift and merciless.”

Dinah bit back a smile and looked at Bruce. “I don’t know if it’s cute or terrifying how much he sounds like you.”

“I sound nothing like that,” Bruce replied, passing the dice. “Roll.”

***

The Dynamic Duo got their vengeance, and swiftly. Dick rolled a seven the next three turns and gleefully just hopped the robber between each of Ollie and Roy’s properties and shouting, “ _Yoink!_ ” every time he drew a card from Ollie’s hand. Bruce let Dick man the whole operation, leaning back and smirking over his own hand before cashing it in for further development.

So on Clark’s turn, he used one more Knight to move the robber off of Ollie’s property and onto Bruce’s.

“Yoink,” he deadpanned as he drew a card. Ore.

Which reminded him. He had a city to build. But building a city took wheat and ore. He had plenty of wheat, but still not enough ore for a city.

“I can’t believe you!” Dick shouted. “Ollie and Roy are in the _lead_ , and you come after _us_?”

“Anyone have ore?” Clark asked.

“He’s coming after you,” Roy said to Dick, “because you guys are being huge assholes.”

“Are not!”

Ollie crossed his arms. “You won’t trade with anyone.”

“Why would we trade with you?” Bruce asked. “Isn’t the goal to win? Not to _help_ your opponent win?”

“Ahem,” Clark cleared his throat. “Ore? To trade? Over here?”

“Sorry, Clark,” said Dinah. “Clear out.”

“If I _had_ ore,” Ollie said, “I’d be using it to build my own city.”

“See?” Bruce held a hand out. “You don’t have to trade!”

That only devolved into another round of bickering. This game had been going on a good forty minutes, without an end in sight. Unless he ended it. So Clark sighed and turned over his Monopoly card, which immediately got Bruce’s attention.

“I need you all to give me your ore. Sorry.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed.

“Yeah, I bet you’re _sorry_ ,” Roy scoffed, as Ollie frisbee-threw three cards at Clark, who snapped them out of the air with ease. “We _needed_ those.”

Dinah sheepishly handed over one. _Clear out_ like hell.

Bruce ground his teeth, holding back some kind of tantrum, probably.

Clark held his hand out. “Bruce,” he said, his voice gentle, “it’s a game.”

Dick leaned over the hand and pulled out the one remaining card and handed it to Clark.

“Thanks. I, uh.” Clark laid out the cards in neat piles. “I’m making two cities.”

He leaned over and replaced one tiny red house with a tiny red skyline. “That’s Central City,” he said, “next to Smallville, see?”

And then again, replacing his port settlement house with another skyline. “And that’s Metropolis.”

“You _named_ them?” Dick asked.

Clark shrugged. “Didn’t you?”

Dick grinned, clearly unable to stay angry for very long.

“Are you _finished_?” Bruce growled.

“It’s okay, Brucie,” said Ollie. “We’ll take him down on this next round.”

Clark grimaced. “Actually…”

“He won,” Bruce concluded, gesturing to the face-down cards in front of Clark.

“I think Smallville is one point, and my cities are two each, so that’s five. And my army does make seven. And I have, um.” He turned over his remaining cards. “A Chapel, a Market, and a University. So that’s ten, I think.”

“You _think_ ,” Bruce echoed.

“Sorry?”

“Wait,” said Ollie, half-angry, half-amused. “You _won_?”

“Let’s play again,” Roy said, clearing off the board. “That was beginner’s luck.”

“Maybe we should do something else,” Dinah suggested.

“You know what,” Ollie said, sitting back now, “that’s great. You beat Brucie, and that’s what matters.”

Bruce’s eyes flashed at Ollie, and Dick shouted, “ _Hey_!”

“That’s _not_ what matters,” Clark said, holding his hands up in protest. He dropped his hands and tried to place one on Bruce’s knee, but Bruce moved his leg just in time for Clark’s hand to land on the couch cushion instead. Clark knew better than to make a scene about it, but that didn’t mean he didn’t _want_ to call Bruce out for acting like a child. “It’s a game. We had fun. That was the point.”

Dinah swept the cards away from the table in front of Clark. “Karaoke, maybe?”

“Ooooh, karaoke, _yes!_ ” Dick shouted. “You have a mic and stuff?”

“Chyeah,” Roy said. “What’s a bachelor pad mansion without a karaoke bar?”

“You have a _karaoke_ _bar_?” Clark said, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s just the den,” Dinah clarified.

“It’s not _just_ a den,” Roy corrected. “It’s like, a souped up home theater. And there _is_ a bar.”

“Well, I’m not singing without shots,” Ollie said, standing up. “You fellas in for a round or two?”

“All right,” Clark acquiesced, earning a hard side-eye from Bruce.

“Seriously?” Ollie’s eyebrows shot up, and he began to cross out of the room to lead them to the den.

“It has no effect on him,” Bruce muttered, leaning into Ollie as they walked ahead of Clark. “He’s just being nice.”

Ollie looked behind his shoulder at Clark and shrugged. “I’ll take it. You in?”

“I don’t do _shots_.”

“Right. Seltzer man.”

Dinah took Clark by the arm, and they walked down a stairwell, with Roy and Dick chattering away ahead of them.

“Congrats,” she said.

“Huh?”

“On winning.”

“Oh.” Clark looked down at his shoes. “I meant it. That doesn’t matter. Honestly, I just wanted it to end.”

“No, it’s good you did,” she said, her voice low. “Those boys needed someone to put them in their place.”

Clark chuckled and looked ahead at them: Dick and Roy, and Bruce and Ollie. Maybe the night _wasn’t_ the disaster he’d felt like it had been.

The room was a home theater, like Dinah had said, but it was no wonder Roy had called it a karaoke bar. It did, in fact, feel exactly like an East Asian private karaoke room, with a long L-shaped couch facing a oversized television and neon lighting illuminating the lounge-like space. Across from the door was a bona fide bar, as Roy had noted, and Ollie was already there, pulling down a bottle and pouring shots of tequila.

“He’s right, you know,” Clark said, stepping up to the bar. “Alcohol doesn’t affect me. I don’t need to waste yours.”

“No, no,” said Ollie, sliding a glass to Clark and one down to Dinah. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s _gross_ , is what it is,” Roy mumbled to Dick. He plopped down on the couch. “It tastes like _burning._ ”

Ollie lifted his glass, and Dinah and Clark joined him. “Cheers.”

It wasn’t much like burning—top shelf quality, after all—but it helped wash down the lingering taste of chili.

“If you liked the IPA we were drinking out there,” Ollie said, “I have it on tap.”

“On _tap_?” Clark laughed.

Ollie answered poured three pints, and then turned to the couch. “None for Brucie, huh? I can’t believe you don’t drink.”

“What? Bruce drinks,” Dick said.

Ollie tugged on his beard. “But—”

“I mean only sometimes, but he likes scotch. Or at least the Macallen 25-year. Right?”

Bruce shot a pointed look at Dick as Ollie arched an eyebrow.

“That could pay two months of rent for a family in Star City,” he said slowly.

“But you have some,” Dick noted. He pointed to the top shelf. “It’s _right_ there.”

Bruce scoffed. “What happened to wealth redistribution?”

“What an excellent question,” Dinah said, leaning on the bar and looking over at Ollie.

“I’m not above admitting that _before_ the Island, I was a spoiled little shit and something of a hypocrite,” Ollie answered, with no shame at all.

“It’s fine, Ollie,” said Bruce, pulling Dick’s hand down. “I don’t need a drink.”

“Okay, no one’s making you,” said Ollie. Clark walked his drink over to the couch and sat next to Bruce.

“And a half-pint for you, Half-Pint,” Ollie said, dropping a smaller glass in front of Roy.

Clark set his own glass back on the table with a _clink_ —thankfully nothing broken—and shot Bruce a wide-eyed look.

“Ollie,” Bruce chided, “he’s a _child_.”

“I’m _fifteen_ ,” Roy corrected.

“Like I said.”

Ollie folded his arms. “I seem to remember you getting _fabulously_ trashed when you were that age, Bruce. Or was that just seltzer?”

“It was _once_ ,” Bruce said.

“It was what now?” Dick asked, eyes wide with interest.

“That was a stupid mistake, and I got suspended for it.”

“You _what_?”

“Right,” Ollie volleyed back. “And _that_ was a bender with dumb teenagers blowing through handles of vodka. _This_ is a half pint. Of _beer_. At _home_. With his _family_.”

“Still.”

“Oh, please,” said Ollie. “My parents gave me wine at dinner, and I turned out just fine.”

“ _Did_ you?” Bruce shot back, dryly.

Dick leaned back into the couch, as if willing himself to disappear away from the middle of this exchange. It was hard to blame him.

“I mean, I was an idiot in my early twenties, but so is _everyone_ in their early twenties. Sorry we can’t all spend five years on international training missions learning to stand on a pole or whatever the fuck you were doing!”

Bruce stood up slowly, but Clark cleared his throat.

“Fifteen’s a _little_ young,” Clark offered. “Pa gave me beer when I was eighteen, but I was an adult. That was the minimum age when he grew up. You know, before Congress nationalized it in 1984.”

He was rambling, sure. He knew that. But rambling was better than breaking up a fight.

“You think you’re so fucking _perfect_ ,” Ollie snapped at Bruce, ignoring Clark’s lecture. “Well, maybe you were a better son than I was, and maybe you’re the fucking _Batman_ , but don’t act like that makes you a better parent.”

Clark jumped up and grabbed Bruce’s arm now. Thankfully Dinah had moved in on Ollie’s side, stepping in front on him and glaring.

“Ollie, come on,” she scolded. “This is ridiculous.”

“No, by all means,” Bruce growled, straining against Clark’s hold, “tell me how I could be a better _parent_.”

Dick suddenly sprang into the middle of the exchange. “I have an idea!” he said, forcing a smile. “How about we sing some terrible songs instead of fighting our friends?”

Bruce looked at Dick and softened, ever-so-slightly.

Clark took the opportunity to lean into Bruce’s ear and whisper, “Ollie’s just trying to get under your skin. You’re better than that.”

Bruce’s arm gave up some of its resistance, but his face still pinched in anger.

“You think a half pint of _beer_ is dangerous,” Ollie unwisely answered, “but you took a _twelve_ -year-old _kid_ into _Gotham_.”

“Oh, fuck,” Dinah whispered.

“Roy, help me set this karaoke thing up,” Dick ordered, and Roy vaulted over the skinny coffee table to comply.

“And what about Roy?” Bruce shouted.

“He’s _two years older_! And that’s _ranged_ fighting, you sanctimonious bastard! No one’s taking swings at Roy!”

Dick, despite the impressive show of restraint, wheeled on Ollie now. “I can take care of myself, Mister Queen,” he said, sternly.

“Here, turn the mics on,” Roy instructed, tapping Dick’s leg. “I’ll get the system up.”

“I hope you can, kid,” Ollie said, “because Bruce clearly doesn’t give a shit about anyone else.”

Bruce pulled again, and Clark tightened his grip. He hated to use his strength against Bruce, but if there was a time and place for it, this seemed like the right one.

He _did_ say, “You’re out of line, Ollie. I get that you feel slighted, but—”

“ _Slighted_?” Bruce snarled. “I didn’t owe you anything, Ollie. You were just another rich kid.”

“I was Green _Arrow_! And you _knew_ that, apparently, and still didn’t have the balls to be honest with me!”

“You never told _me_.”

“But you _knew_. So you could’ve dropped the stupid act! _Hey, Ollie, I figured out that you’re a vigilante! So am I!_ ”

Dick finally looked back down at Roy, who was now flicking his shin. “Right. The mic. What should we sing? I’m feeling something dancey. 1970s. Disco or something. What d’ya say? ABBA?”

“When should I have said that?” Bruce asked.

“I don’t know, maybe when the League was asking me to join? Maybe I would have!”

“Ollie’s dad used to play that ‘September’ song,” Roy whispered. “By Earth, Wind, and Fire? He has a total weak spot for it.”

Dick made an _A-OK_ gesture and worked on setting up the song, despite only being instructed to turn on the mics.

Bruce turned to Clark. “This is the reason I wanted Canary to begin with.”

Dinah grimaced and put a hand on Ollie’s chest.

“We should leave,” Bruce said.

Dick immediately tapped Roy on the shoulder and whispered in his ear.

It was just a stupid pun-filled joke, in true Dick fashion, and not even a particularly funny one, but no one else knew that. Dick then whispered, “Just laugh so they don’t kill each other.”

Roy muttered, “That was literally the worst joke I’ve ever heard,” and then cracked up, and Dick laughed even harder.

And _that_ got Bruce’s attention. And then music blasted out from the sound system, sending a cheerful little beat across the room. A horn intro came in, and Ollie’s ears perked up.

“We should stay,” Clark whispered to Bruce. And Bruce nodded, slowly. He wasn’t going to prove Ollie right by tearing Dick away from a fast-forming friendship.

“ _Do you re-mem-ber_ ,” Dick sang, full of gusto, “ _the twenty-first night of Sep-tem-ber?”_

Ollie seemed to be noticing the same thing, because he said, “Forget it. Stay.”

“ _Love was changin’ the minds of pre-ten-ders—while chasing’ the clouds away-ay-ay…_ ”

He circled around the bar, and then he reached up for the Macallen that Dick had pointed to and slowly opened it while eyeing Bruce.

“Rocks or neat?” he asked. “Stones, obviously, not ice. I’m not a _barbarian_.”

“Hn.” Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Neat.”

Dick shoved the mic to Roy, who took on the song in the unmistakable monotone of a teen all too aware of an easily cracking voice: “ _Our hears were ringing, in the key that our souls were singing_ …”

Ollie poured two glasses of the scotch which had to cost… Something horrifying. Clark really didn’t even want to _think_ about how much each glass was worth.

Bruce made to move forward, and Clark gave him a warning eye before letting his arm go. Bruce approached steadily, took the glass in hand, and said, “Cheers,” in a complete deadpan.

Dick, meanwhile, picked up the second mic and brought it over to Clark, and by the time the chorus came, everyone other than the scotch-drinking vigilante grumps was singing, “ _Bah, de-ya, bah, de-ya_ ,” like a fool.

And then Dinah took over on the next verse, and blew everyone away. She winked at Ollie as she sang, and he broke into a smile. Bruce turned around to see Dinah dance over in their direction as the chorus hit, and she held a hand to Ollie and pulled him in.

That seemed to suggest that Bruce was Clark’s responsibility somehow, but Bruce wasn’t as easily plied. He sipped the fine scotch and watched—and his eyes fell on Dick singing up a storm. He’d surely seen through all of Dick’s ploys—the joke with Roy, setting up the karaoke, choosing an irresistibly happy song—but he didn’t seem upset. A little smile danced across his lips, and Clark cha-cha-ed over to Bruce in the nerdiest, most over the top way he could manage. Bruce shook his head, and Clark took his hand.

“Come on,” he whispered. “If Dick can let it go, you can too.”

Bruce stood up, put his glass down, and then cut his eyes from Dick to Clark, and shook his head. “You’re both manipulative bastards,” he mouthed, his voice too low to even be called a whisper.

“I love you, too,” Clark said, planting a swift kiss on Bruce’s cheekbone. “Now go.”

Clark’s fingers slipped around Bruce’s back and prodded him forward, just an inch, and Bruce took the other steps himself, crossing to Dick and ruffling his hair while singing along quietly. He didn’t go for a mic or belt out the chorus like everyone else, but he was there, and so was Ollie, and that sure was something.

As the dance number wound down, Dick and Roy queued up a new song, keeping everyone focused on singing and away from arguing. Bruce sat back down and sipped his scotch while Ollie belted out a rock anthem, and then Dick insisted on a boy-band number, which earned heaps of derision masking joyful smiles. After a number of other crowd-pleasers from the boys, Clark played along by leading them in a terrible version of the Proclaimers’ “I Wanna Be (500 Miles)”, and then Dinah stepped up and started a song with a familiar sound.

Siouxsie and the Banshees.  Covering... something Clark couldn't put his finger on.

“ _I am the passenger,_ ” she sang, “ _and I ride and I ride—I ride through the city’s backsides—I see the stars come out of the sky—Yeah they’re bright in a hollow sky—_ ”

She pointed at Bruce, who quietly sang in harmony, “ _You know it looks so good toooo-niiiight.”_

Dick burst into a proud grin, and soon Dinah had everyone joining along in a song they barely knew.

And then, in the biggest miracle of the night, Bruce reached over and flipped through the catalogue.

“You’re gonna sing, Bruce?” Dick asked.

“We should leave soon,” he said, which wasn’t an answer at all.

But then he selected a number. Frank Sinatra.

“Sinatra. You _would_ ,” Ollie teased.

Roy’s eyes widened, and everyone waited, breath held, to see what would happen.

But Bruce ignored it and began singing, “ _I've got you_ _under my skin…_ ”

And… it was amazing. He wasn’t much of a showman, but his voice was rich and deep, and every word felt genuine and packed with feeling. Everyone watched, captivated, not daring to sing along like they had in all the other numbers. But it wasn’t fear of Bruce so much as fear of ruining the song.

Clark had heard Bruce sing along with things, here and there, but never like this. And though Bruce didn’t show it, Clark couldn’t help but feel like the song was for him.

Even Dinah’s mouth fell slightly agape as Bruce belted out, “ _Don't you know, you fool, ain’t no chance to win?_ ”

“ _Why not use your mentality_ ,” he sang, “ _wake up to reality? But each time I do, just the thought of you makes me stop before I begin_ …”

And for the briefest of moments, Bruce’s eyes fell on Clark. And then, just as quickly, they fell to the ground.

“… _Cause I’ve got you under my skin._ ”

The song closed, and Dick jumped up and clapped, cheering.

“Did you know he could do that?” Roy asked.

Clark shook his head.

Dick smiled and said, “ _I_ did.”

“Well.” Ollie broke into a smile and clapped a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “You’re welcome to come by and sing anytime, even if it’s fuckin’ _Sinatra_.”

Bruce answered with a hint of a smile and picked up his drink, finishing the last remaining sip.

“What, you prefer Bing Crosby?”

Ollie laughed and shook his head. “You geezer.”

“Maybe we will,” Bruce said. “Though for now…we should be heading out.”

“Right, yeah. Are you staying in Star City tonight?”

Bruce answered with a nod.

“Maybe… I’ll see you out there?”

“Yeah,” Bruce said, smiling. “Maybe.”

As they moved toward the door, Dinah gave them each a hug and insisted they “do it again sometime,” and Clark gave his unqualified approval.

And then the door closed behind them, and he looked over at Bruce with an exasperated expression.

“We’re not doing that again,” Bruce declared.

“No,” said Clark, walking down the drive. “Definitely not.”

Dick ran past them to the car and turned around, arms crossed. “Well, _I_ had fun.”

"Yeah?"  Bruce smiled. “I guess it was worth it, then.”

They gathered into the car, and Bruce pulled up the song Dinah had sung earlier.  _Siouxsie and the Banshees_ , the mp3 player said.  _The Passenger._

After the gate let them exit, they turned out onto the street, heading back toward the hotel where they were staying for the night. Not that Clark would stay long—he had already taken too much time off—and Bruce probably had six leads lined up in Star City himself. But for now, they rolled the windows down and let the cool salty air blow by.

“ _And everything was made for you and me—All of it was made for you and me—Cuz it just belongs to you and me—So let’s take a ride and see what’s mine—Singing, La la la la Lalalala, La la la la Lalalala…_ ”


End file.
